


Last Soldier Standing

by VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Friendlock, Gen, Minor Character Death, No Sex, Post-War Trauma, Support Our Troops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock crosses the line and nearly destroys his friendship with John. This is how he makes it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Soldier Standing

 

 

They banged through the door and collapsed into individual chairs with a theatric _oomph!_ usually reserved only for the consulting detective. John grinned at the ceiling, still panting a bit from all their activity.

“I’m getting old.”

“ _Too_ old?” Sherlock asked immediately.

“Fuck no.”

They both giggled a bit, riding the adrenaline high from their chase.

“Good,” Sherlock decided, “You’d be useless to me if you stopped being my muscle.”

John snorted, “Because I’m so stupid?”

“I’m glad you know your place, John.”

“Git.”

They giggled a bit again, sighed as the exaustion started to settle in, and then said their goodnights and headed to their bedrooms. After changing into jammies there was a general roughhousing moment in the loo as each decided he should brush his teeth first, it ended when Sherlock rather roughly shoved John into the tub. John laughed uproariously and Sherlock claimed the sink until he managed to stagger out of the tub.

“You’re drunk,” Sherlock smirked, standing in the doorway while John pissed, washed his hands, and then brushed his teeth.

“I’ve had nothing alcoholic all day!” John argued around his toothbrush.

“That’s disgusting, and you don’t need alcohol to get drunk. You just need adrenalin. You’re hooked.”

John spat, “Damn right, I am.”

“Good thing I provide it for you.”

“Yep.”

“It’s mutually beneficial, really. I _can_ defend myself, but why extend the effort when you can do it for me?”

“Why indeed? Your energy is better directed towards brain power.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed.

“Go to bed you pompous arse,” John smirked, shoving him out of the way. They tussled for a moment longer and then John staggered off, giggling and half asleep already.

John hit the pillow with a relieved sigh, knowing Sherlock would be sleeping in tomorrow as he always did after a case. They were the equivalent to sex for him, leaving him satisfied and lazy for a day after the big ones. It was a nice arrangement, what they had; John could feel alive with Sherlock and Sherlock could feel accepted with John.

_Perfect friendship._

XXX

John staggered downstairs with his usual drunken post-case gait. Sherlock smirked to himself while the man puttered about in the kitchen, putting on tea and coffee before taking out a pan to make a big breakfast for them both. Sherlock always ate a nice big breakfast after a case and John was always eager to make it- if only to see that Sherlock ate.

John finally moved into the den and handed Sherlock a plate and mug before going back to fetch his own. They sat in companionable silence on the couch, plates on the coffee table, eating and sipping until consciousness fully came to them both.

“Any cases on today?” John asked cautiously.

“None. I’m planning on spending the day with the Strad.”

“Sounds good. You two want some alone time?” John teased.

“That would be acceptable.”

“Good, then. I’ll go out and see if I can’t find myself someone to have alone time with as well.”

“Luck.”

“Thanks.”

John got up and headed out the door, but it was far too early to go to a pub to pull women so he was likely just having a walk. Sherlock settled into his post-case routine which usually did _not_ involve his flatmate. John didn’t return until nearly midnight and when he did, he looked worse for wear.

“No luck?”

“Well, some. Got a bit of love in an alley outside a club I went to,” John shrugged.

“Disgusting.”

“A bit, but I wasn’t the one on my knees,” John laughed, “Fact is, I’d rather have taken her out to dinner and been proper about it.”

“You feel _guilty_? You’re ridiculous. She obviously was looking to be shamed in some way, otherwise she wouldn’t have done such a disgusting thing.”

“Or she enjoyed the thrill, hopefully as much as I did. Not all women are either ‘The Woman’ or ‘Useless Bints’ Sherlock.”

“That’s your area. I’ll leave you to analyze it.”

“Thanks.”

 John headed for the shower while Sherlock continued to make a few corrections to his latest composition. When John returned he flopped down and picked up that mornings paper to do some catching up.

“Did you see this one? Robbery on the Thames?”

“Dull.”

“Three murdered in Devonshire?”

“Tedious. It’s the neighbor they interviewed. Criminals make excellent ‘witnesses’, don’t you agree?”

“Apparently. Damn. This is awful.”

“Hm? What?” Sherlock asked eagerly.

“Not for you, for me. A homeless veteran froze to death outside Kings Cross,” John said sadly, “Gods, that could have been me.”

“You? Why?”

“I wasn’t far off going homeless when I got back,” John stated, “I had nothing and no one. You pretty much saved me from this poor bugger’s same fate.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock snorted, “Why wouldn’t you just lean on your sister a bit or move _out_ of London?”

“You don’t get it, Sherlock,” John sighed, “The army _changes_ you. It makes you a part of something, but when you leave it takes that away. At least, it does for those who can’t contribute anymore like me. Some go on to do other things, like recruiting or police work, but with that shakiness in my hand I couldn’t even do surgery work. Nobody wants a doctor who’s a mess.”

“You got over it.”

“With your help, sure,” John smiled warmly.

Sherlock turned away, uncomfortable with the emotional display, but John never minded that sort of thing. Unfortunately, he _did_ mind the next thoughtless thing to leave Sherlock’s mouth.

“Weak. You were being weak. I just reminded you that you weren’t useless without a uniform.”

“ _Weak_? I invaded Afghanistan,” John snorted, “I was traumatized, not weak. I got over it, didn’t I?”

“With _my_ help,” Sherlock pointed out again, “And why do you always say that?”

“Say what?”

“ _I_ invaded Afghanistan? Did you storm it on your own? Were you singlehandedly taking out enemies with a machine gun without taking a single bullet, like those silly flicks with the muscled buffoons?”

John stood up silently, shaking with anger, “You weren’t there, Sherlock. I’m not trying to take credit when I say that, but I deserve a bit of respect.”

“As if it was difficult to invade a country that was already ravaged by dispute for centuries,” Sherlock snorted, “Honestly, the utter cowardice of…”

John turned angrily and stormed out of the room. Sherlock shrugged and started taking out his chemistry set, calmly organizing his ingredients. John stomped back downstairs and slammed a picture down on the table. I was one Sherlock had seen before while poking around John’s room. It was the medics the day they had graduated from officer’s training. They were smiling and had their arms flung around each other, all in uniform and sporting their pips. John was on the right giving the cameraman the finger for no apparent reason. It was also in a frame with _glass_ on the front. Glass that had shattered and cut up John’s hand when he’d slammed it down.

“John, you…” Sherlock started.

“Six men and women in this picture, Sherlock. Only two are alive today. You want to _deduce_ which two?”

“Since I’ve met him and seen his comments on your blog, I’ll assume Bill Murray and yourself. Simple.”

“Right. You want to know what happened to the other four?”

“They invaded Afghanistan?”

“Two for two!” John snapped out sarcastically, “Let’s go for three. You want to know who had the honor of writing the letters to tell their families after they died on his operating table?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and then, “John, I feel I owe you an apolo…”

“Save it,” John snapped, “Because I’m used to you being a bastard, Sherlock, but I thought you at least respected _something_ about me.”

John turned and stomped off, blood dripping on the carpet after him.

“John, your hand,” Sherlock made a grab for his wrist but John turned and shoved him hard, leaving a bloody handprint on his favorite sleep shirt.

“Piss off!” John shouted, and then stomped upstairs without looking back.

Sherlock heard John shuffling around and deduced he was packing a bag. _He’ll stay with a friend or Harry for a night or two. He’ll accept my apology once he cools off._ Then there was a substantial change in the quality and quantity of what he was packing and Sherlock stiffened in alarm. _Those aren’t just clothes. Those are mementos. He’s packing legitimate items._

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and hurried upstairs to find John stuffing a photo album into a second bag.

“You’re not moving out because of _this_ , John. It’s a silly argument.”

“It’s my breaking point, Sherlock,” John snapped, “I’ve forgiven you for a lot. A _hell_ of a lot. Things most people would _never_ tolerate. People call me a _saint_ for putting up with you, you know that?”

“Lestrade’s mentioned it a few times. I think Mycroft has as well…”

“Well, I’m done. I’m done with your nasty comments, done with your walking all over me, done with picking up after you, done with helping you out on cases only to be told I’m just your bloody muscle!”

“That was a joke, John,” Sherlock insisted, “You know that I…”

“Out of my way or I’ll move you!” John shouted, and Sherlock scarpered at the very serious look on his face.

 John stomped down the stairs and out the door while Sherlock shouted after him uselessly. He tried a few texts after that but was ignored. He tried to call, but it went straight to voicemail. Finally, he paced the flat wondering how he could bring John back. This didn’t have the feel of a temper tantrum; John was serious. He was about to lose his only friend- not counting Mrs. Hudson who was more of a mother figure and Lestrade who was more of an employer. Sherlock had no one else he truly trusted or cared about. He had fans (including Molly) and old clients (like Mike) and they’d do a great deal for him, but they weren’t the loyal friends John was.

Sherlock saw the bloodstained photo forgotten on the table and carefully picked it up, smiling as an idea formed.

XXX

John opened the door to the cheep motel he’d crashed in and stared in a mixure of annoyance and amusement at the handful of flowers Sherlock was carrying.

“Sherlock, men don’t give each other flowers. People will talk,” John snorted, then went to shut the door on him only to encounter a foot.

“They’re not for _you_ ,” Sherlock retorted, pushing through the door, “You’re booked for a few days, right? Good. Leave the non-essentials here. We have a train to catch in two hours.”

“I’m not going on a case with you, Sherlock. We’ve had a row and I’ve moved out- am moving out- you can’t fix this with a murder.”

“No case,” Sherlock stated, tossing John’s clothes and essentials into a suitcase, “This is personal.”

“Personal how?” John asked, “Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?”

“Not personal to me, personal to you,” Sherlock replied, “We have a stop to make before the station, and so we have to leave now. Let’s go.”

“ _Where_?” John griped.

“Someplace you need to go,” Sherlock replied, hurrying the protesting John out the door with his shoes in his hands. John hissed at the cold and leaned against the wall to put them on before following Sherlock down the outdoor hallway, down the stairwell, and out to the waiting cab.

“This better be worth it, Sherlock,” John grimaced, slipping in and rubbing at his hands, “I forgot my gloves.”

“You can borrow mine,” Sherlock replied, passing them off.

“What, really?”

“Yes, you’ll need them. I’ll use my pockets.”

John blinked at Sherlock in confusion, his interest peaked now, and settled down to wait. They drove to the outside of the city limits and then turned into a cemetery.

“Sherlock?” John asked in worry, but the man was addressing the cabbie.

“Turn at your first right and then go round the curve and stop in the middle.”

“Right-o,” The cabbie nodded, doing as Sherlock had asked.

John and Sherlock piled out and Sherlock strode ahead with the flowers in hand while John hurried after him, shoving the gloves on. They stopped in front of a grave and Sherlock passed John a white rose.

“Okay so…” John started, then caught the name on the tombstone and swallowed at the lump in his throat.

**In Loving Memory Of**

**Lt. Sam Everett**

**1973-2006**

“Take your time, John,” Sherlock stated softly, “We made good time.”

Sherlock strode a few feet away, pockets in hand, to give John some privacy.

“Bloody hell,” John sighed, “Sam. I guess… I should have visited sooner I just… I hate these places. You know that. Bill and I are the only ones left. I’ve been in touch with him off and on. Went out for a few drinks. Found himself a lovely lady… and yeah, I’m keeping my mitts off her,” John chuckled, “I heard from your mum a few weeks back. She’s doing well… considering… getting up there in age, but your brother has it covered.”

John ran out of things to say after that and just stared, flower in hand, until Sherlock started towards him. Then he dropped the flower on the grave and turned away without prompting to head back to the cab.

“The train?” John asked once they were driving for a bit.

“I thought we’d start with the furthest after Lt. Everett and work our way back. I’ve got a rental car waiting at the station.”

“The further away the harder to stop me storming off, and this- stopping here first- was to _get_ me on the train. Why not just take me to see Bill? He’d have talked me down, he’s a huge fan of yours.”

Sherlock was silent a moment and then replied softly, “He’s… indisposed. We’ve an engagement with him in two days time. I packed your dress uniform.”

“Oh, fancy is it? Are they announcing they’re in a family way? I know they’ve been trying.”

Sherlock was silent again for an unusual amount of time and then stated softly, “Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“All right, then,” John grinned.

The train ride was a somber one as John tried to recall where each of his former dorm mates was buried. In the end, however, he didn’t pay any attention at all to location. He just spent two days driving from grave to grave in absolute silence, each minute stretching into an hour, to drop a flower on a grave and say a few short words. He thought he would cry. He thought the memories would overwhelm him and he’d end up sharing them with Sherlock just to let them out. He thought he’d at least be touched by the consulting detectives efforts. None of those things happened. John felt empty and eager to get to the end of the trip and see Bill.

XXX

Sherlock sighed as they turned onto the last leg of their journey. He was glad he had stored what John’s voice sounded like in his mind palace, because the man’s intense silence would have left anyone else forgetful. The problem was, Sherlock had let the silence grow between them in the hopes it was what John needed, but now he was not so sure and was also left with the unfortunate task of _breaking_ that silence. Happily, John did it for him.

“You missed your turn, Sherlock,” John spoke up.

“Hm?” Sherlock asked.

“Bill’s house. It’s down that last road.”

“Oh. We aren’t going to his house.”

John fiddled with the cuffs of his dress uniform and Sherlock told himself firmly that he had to tell John _now._ Before the last turn. Then they were turning. And then they were stopping. And Sherlock still hadn’t said a word.

“Sherlock,” John asked, voice slightly panicked, “Why are we in front of a funeral home?”

“John, I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you this for two days.”

“Oh gods,” John whispered.

“I called Bill the evening we had an argument to arrange a visit, because he’d talk you down like you said. His wife answered. She had just found out an hour earlier, and I asked to be the one to tell you instead of her. That morning there had been an accident.”

“Oh, no.”

Sherlock found he was still gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead of himself while John sat beside him, devastated by his tone of voice. Sherlock forced himself to release his hands from the wheel one finger at a time and then turn his head to look at his best friend. John was staring out the window of the car; his reflection showed a grimace of pain and anxiety.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock stated mechanically. It was all he knew how to say. John didn’t respond.

Sherlock slipped out of the car and came around John’s side, pulling the car door open for him. He handed John the final rose, a bit wilted despite his efforts to keep it fresh, and held out a hand to help him up. As he’d suspected, John hissed in pain when he put weight on one of his legs. John stared down at his feet in misery while Sherlock went to the boot and pulled out his cane.

“Here, you’ll need this for now. Just temporary, mind you,” Sherlock insisted, knowing reinforcing the fact that the limp wasn’t permanent was important.

“You sound like _you’re_ the doctor,” John grouched.

“It’s the guilt, John,” Sherlock replied softly, “And it will pass.”

“Guilt? Why? I didn’t kill him. How did he die, anyway? What kind of accident?”

“Car.”

“Gods,” John breathed, “Not Bill. A damn car accident couldn’t kill him.”

Sherlock stared into John’s pleading eyes for a moment and decided that arguing the validity of that claim was futile. Instead he did something he was rather unsure was appropriate and leaned forward to hug John tightly. The man reciprocated, so Sherlock decided he’d made the right move and stepped back to lead him up to the building. He’d address the survivor’s guilt later.

Bill’s family, friends, and fellow soldiers were all there. John moved closer, greeting a few he knew with polite nods. They weren’t medics like John was, or orderlies like Bill had been, these were the men he had patched up over the years. Sherlock noted a scar on one man’s neck that bore John’s signature left-handed stitch; Sherlock should know, he had enough of those on him as well. John stood, leg forgotten again, while they sang and spoke a few words. Then, after an eternity of weepy men and women, they were off to the gravesite where John ended up near the wife.

“I’m so sorry,” John whispered softly to Mrs. Murray, “I know what you meant to him. You made everything worth it to him. I hope I’m half as lucky as he was.”

“You’re John Watson, right?” She whispered back, “I didn’t realize you made it. I wanted you to say a few words at the funeral, but I didn’t see you come in.”

“I was in the back… my leg…” John tapped it with his cane.

“Would you speak now, if it isn’t too much trouble? I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but you knew him better than anyone here, at least, you knew him _before_ …”

She left it hanging and Sherlock knew she meant _before Afghanistan_. Did Murray not speak of it? Come to think of it, neither did John. _That’s worrisome. How did I miss that before now?_

“Yeah, sure,” John stated, and Mrs. Murray waved the preacher down to interrupt her for a moment.

“Mrs. Murray,” The old woman croaked out, “Would like to have a few more words spoken about the dearly departed before we lay him to rest.”

John stepped forward, moving slowly and painfully, and took the place the preacher vacated.

“I’m sorry if I’m a bit unprepared, but I only found out today that Bill had died. In fact,” John gave Sherlock an accusing stare to which he responded with a (probably inappropriate) smile, “I only found out when we pulled up to the funeral home. I’d hoped we were going to… well, that’s not important now. I guess the main thing I can say about Bill, that most people might not know because nobody who comes home likes to talk about the war, is that he was a hero. I don’t just mean your garden variety hero, he went there and served, he saved lives on the operating table; there’s nothing wrong with that, but it isn’t what Bill was. Bill was a _real_ honest to god hero. He was my hero, in fact. Our mobile surgery got attacked one night and our camp was completely swarmed. We were all trying to pull out and a nearby regimen had joined us, complete with a tank and all. Bill was in that regimen, and I hadn’t seen him since we’d graduated from Officers Academy together. We ended up getting pinned down by fire, ours and theirs, and were stuck in a muddy pit for hours. I could hear my own team shouting for medics, then finally shouting for me…”

John’s voice cracked, but he swallowed hard and continued, “I never got to them. I tried, but it got me shot and I just ended up another patient. Another problem for the overworked medics. Bill was an orderly at the time, a rank below me and stubborn as hell. I yelled at him to leave me and get to safety because it was getting _worse_ out there. He ignored my order, completely disobeyed, threw me over his shoulder and carried me to safety. He stopped the bleeding before tending to those worse than me. He saved my life.”

John saluted the coffin smartly, pivoted on his heals, and made a valiant attempt at walking away that was stymied by his limp. Sherlock circled around and helped him lean on him when the cane continued to stick in the mud by the gravesite. John took his arm gratefully and Sherlock helped him sit down on a marble bench nearby. John’s face was white as a ghost.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked worriedly.

John met his eyes and gave his head a miserable shake, but his eyes were dry and focused so Sherlock simply sat beside him. Soldiers filed past them with reversed arms and John stood on shaky legs to salute them as they passed. One of them handed him a black armband and Sherlock helped John slip it on when his hands shook too much.

“Gods, I’m a mess. I knew him, loved him like a brother, but I wasn’t family. His wife has it more together than I do.”

“His wife wasn’t _there_ ,” Sherlock replied softly.

The cemetery slowly emptied and John and Sherlock remained, Sherlock doing his best to politely decline their invitation to a reception of sorts.

“Honestly,” Sherlock sighed as he reclaimed his seat beside John, “Why do people always feel this horrific need to _eat_ after someone dies?”

“Comfort, Sherlock,” John replied in a monotone, “Eating is comforting for most people.”

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stared down at John’s hand where the stem of the rose was basically crushed and then glanced back at the fresh grave. He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say, which was becoming annoyingly typical for him over the last few days.

“I’m not even forty,” John spoke suddenly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied intelligently.

“I’m not even forty and everyone I had a significant relationship with is dead. My wife died after two years of marriage leaving me a widow, so here I am with no one. That isn’t supposed to happen until I’m at _least_ seventy.”

“You have Lestrade,” Sherlock pointed out.

“He’s good for a few laughs, but our main connection is _you_ and how bloody annoying you are. Take that away and we’ll go out for drinks less than Bill and I did.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Practically your mum.”

“Harry.”

“Drunk all the time, and we don’t get on anyway.”

“Me.”

John nodded miserably, “You.”

“I’m not an adequate friend, John. I know that-”

“No, you’re a fantastic friend… well…”

“May I?” Sherlock asked, holding out his hand for the flower, “I think there are a few last words _I’d_ like to say to Bill.”

John unclenched his fist and held out the limp flower. Sherlock took it and deftly broke off the lower part. Taking the flower and remaining stem in hand, Sherlock strode over to the grave and folded his hands in front of him respectfully as everyone else had done.

“John never told me how he got shot,” Sherlock stated softly, “And I just assumed if it were important I’d have deduced it. Now I find out that I owe someone deceased, with whom I have shared very few kind words- and more than a few curt words- a very great debt. If you had not been there John would not be _here_ , and I can’t imagine a here without him. You see, he’s saved my life as well. Without him it’s unlikely I would be alive today. Even assuming I’d have survived the numerous times he’s kept me safe over the years, I’d likely have jumped off the roof of St Bart’s without bothering to even _try_ surviving. He gave me a second set of eyes; he let me see myself as human instead of just a computer with legs. I had no longing to _live_ before he taught me that life was valuable, and I was only able to see that through him. Thank you for that.”

Sherlock tossed the rose down onto the lose dirt, paused for a moment of silence, and then walked back to where John had been silently watching and listening.

“Is what you just said true?” John asked.

“More or less,” Sherlock replied, “Next stop is your motel, so feel free to stay as long as you-“

John stood up, leaning heavily on the cane as he headed for the car once more. Sherlock followed swiftly after, quickly overtaking him, and opened the door for him once more.

“You keep doing that. I’m not an invalid.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Then don’t do that.”

“Open the door for you? Why does it bother you? As you said, you aren’t an invalid. This is _temporary_.”

“Yeah, because of guilt, you said. Why? What am I so guilty about?”

“Survivor’s guilt.”

“Typical,” John laughed, “And how do I fix it?”

“The same way you fixed it last time,” Sherlock replied, “By saving someone.”

Sherlock swerved violently in front of an oncoming bus and John shouted, grabbing the wheel and pulling it until they were safe. Sherlock took it back while John screamed at him in outrage to pull over. Sherlock obeyed and John jumped out of the car, stomping down the road in anger. Sherlock was hot on his heels.

“John.”

“Piss off!”

“John!”

“You’re so damned arrogant! What if I’d frozen up, Sherlock? What if I hadn’t reacted in time? We’d both be dead!”

“John!!”

“I just found out that an old friend of mine died in a _car accident_ and you just tried to _get me into one!!_ ”

“Yes, about that. You see-“

“No! YOU SEE! You see my face, Sherlock? You see how pissed off I am?!”

“Yes, it’s rather obvious.”

“Do you think this is okay?!”

“It’s better than before.”

“Before?! So this is better than me pissed as hell and wanting to move out?!”

“No, this is better than you limping around feeling sorry about yourself.”

John paused a moment, breathing through his mouth as he tried to calm down enough to process what Sherlock had said.

“I hate that you feel the need to do _stupid_ shite to prove how bloody smart you are!” John snarled while Sherlock forced his smile down, “So yeah, thanks for the walking thing again.”

“Of course.”

“Now we were headed back to my motel?”

“Yes, but…”

“I’m not going home,” John snapped, then turned and walked back to the car.

 Sherlock _did_ smile then, because despite his anger John had called it _home._


End file.
